Through A Glass
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: There is an adjoining door in the bathroom at 221B that leads into Sherlock's bedroom. The door, from the bathroom to Sherlock's bedroom, is made of three glass, semi-opaque panels. It has suddenly come to Sherlock's attention that if he stands in exactly the right spot in his bedroom he can see through said panels, and more to the point, can see John.


**Title:** Through A Glass

**Author:** Mildredandbobbin

**Rating:** Mature

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Contents/warnings:** Accidental voyeurism, masturbation, first kiss

**Author's notes:** Written for Mid0Nz's BBC Sherlock Writing Contest, based on prompt 2: Sherlock can see into the only bathroom in the flat from his bedroom. It's true. (Johnlock alert!)

**Summary:**

There is an adjoining door in the bathroom at 221B that leads into Sherlock's bedroom. The door, from the bathroom to Sherlock's bedroom, is made of three glass, semi-opaque panels. It has suddenly come to Sherlock's attention that if he stands in exactly the right spot in his bedroom he can see through said panels, and more to the point, can see _John_.

* * *

_And when I lean my head against the frosted shower stall_

_I see stuff through the glass that I don't recognize at all_

_– Till My Head Falls Off by They Might Be Giants_

* * *

There is an adjoining door in the bathroom at 221B that leads into Sherlock's bedroom. The door, from the bathroom to Sherlock's bedroom, is made of three glass, semi-opaque panels. It has suddenly come to Sherlock's attention that if he stands in exactly the right spot in his bedroom he can see through said panels, and more to the point, can see _John_.

John: slim, compact, very nude, albeit slightly blurry, John. John, who is currently bowed over the hand basin and touching himself in a rhythmic manner that quickens Sherlock's pulse, makes him somewhat breathless and brings to mind certain thoughts Sherlock has been recently entertaining with a disconcerting regularity. (The promises he made while away, to himself and to the John of his memory haven't been fulfilled -– the harsh light of reality make uncertain, tenuous emotions skitter back into the shadows, easier not to, best to pretend those feelings don't exist).

When Sherlock quickly turns his back, as common decency dictates (after so many years he's not completely unaware of what John would consider Not Good) he can _still_ see John very clearly reflected in the wardrobe mirror.

It renders him motionless.

Sherlock stands in his bedroom, with his hand on the wardrobe door, caught by John's reflection. What he cannot see clearly his mind helpfully supplies. John's shoulders are hunched, his right arm braced against the vanity counter, his back and head bowed. He's biting his bottom lip and his legs are bending at the knee with the effort. His hand moves at a steady pace and Sherlock thinks he can see the veins in John's neck, the tension in his shoulders and his arms. The bath water is running but Sherlock can still hear the slick-slap of John's hand against flesh lubricated with the liquid bath soap.

A tingle runs down Sherlock's spine to lodge in his coccyx and radiates like a fracture in glass across his belly and groin. His palms and fingers feel suddenly, intensely sensitive.

He has seen John naked before, yes, even noted him absently in the bathroom, in passing. It is John's unselfconscious indulgence however that makes the see-through glass panels suddenly, irreversibly salient.

It is one thing to know in theory and abstract that John is a sexual being, it is another thing entirely to see it in practice.

Of course: John is unaware of Sherlock's voyeurism, he believes Sherlock to be at Barts, possibly for another several hours. John thinks he is alone.

Sherlock however is not at Barts. Sherlock's experiment proved slightly more messy than anticipated and he's come home to change his clothes.

Suddenly John stills and even though Sherlock cannot tell through the blur of the glass if John's gaze has fixed on him, he knows, without a doubt, that it has. John has discovered his presence. Sherlock stares back, through the mirror. John remains still: wondering (Sherlock is sure), if Sherlock can see him, how much of him Sherlock has seen and why the bloody hell is Sherlock here so unexpectedly.

Sherlock notes his heart is beating with an unaccountable swiftness. (Don't stop John). He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and straightens. He is here to change his clothes, after all, so he'll proceed. John's course of action (storm out through one of two doors to flee or confront, continue his bath or simply…continue) cannot be accurately deduced -– John, as always, can be decidedly unpredictable.

John remains still as Sherlock slips off his suit coat and tosses it on the bed. John doesn't move as Sherlock toes off his shoes and then lifts his hands to buttons of his shirt. As Sherlock's fingers move down his shirt front at a deliberately steady pace he is aware, acutely aware of John's stillness and John's gaze. He undoes his cuffs and his hands pause on the fine weave of the now soiled cotton (pig's blood, should come out with cold water) and then with a slow, sinuous movement, slides it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. John bows his head for a moment and then looks up, his face turning directly towards the door. John's left hand slides once.

Interesting.

Sherlock's pulse rate is elevated as his hands fall to his belt, he unbuckles and then slides the leather through the loops with a twist of his wrist. He drops the belt to the ground and undoes his trousers, hooking his thumbs into the waist band. Slowly, deliberately he eases the fabric over his hips and bending at the waist, pushes trousers and pants to his feet. He stands and steps out of the pool of fabric at his feet, raises each foot and flicks off his socks. He stands tall, naked in front of the mirror, watching John watching him. Watching John touch himself, while watching him.

Very interesting.

He thinks of what John must see: his dark hair, his back, naked buttocks, long legs, and, over his shoulder, in the mirror, his face, staring back. Sherlock's penis is flushed and hard, bobbing insolently in front of him in the mirror. He feels an odd rush of daring as he closes his palm around it: knowing that John knows what he's about to do. He caresses himself once, lightly and in the mirror he sees John straighten.

John draws himself up and turns fully towards the door, faces Sherlock. His hand moves slowly and Sherlock matches his pace, holds his gaze through the mirror. He can see John's eyes at this angle through the refraction of the opaque glass and he focuses on them.

Despite the sharp potent thrill (voyeurism, illicit), it is safe this way, the risk mitigated: afterwards they could pretend it never happened – that Sherlock merely came to his room to change, that John merely enjoyed some alone time in the bathroom. They can pretend. Nothing need change.

Sherlock strokes faster, fiercely.

He holds John's gaze and dares him to look away, to deny this.

_Sherlock _doesn't want to deny this, he realises with sharp, gutting clarity. John is watching him and John is not looking away and John is _masturbating_ watching him. Possibility blooms, sweet and aching.

Sherlock turns around.

John's eyes shut momentarily but then he opens them again. His tongue darts out and Sherlock takes a step towards him.

John doesn't flinch, doesn't falter as Sherlock prowls towards him, palming himself with long, deliberate strokes.

Sherlock stops before the glass door. He leans one hand on the door frame and parts his legs slightly. He drops his cock for a moment to tug lightly on his testicles and then resumes his stroking even as he pins John with his gaze, takes in every point of data he can glean through the clouded glass. John steps towards him, watching him in return, fist moving rapidly. Sherlock's pulse is racing now and his breath catches in his throat as he tilts his hips into his fist, fucking his hand. He is close, mounting pleasure winding up his spine and radiating through his thighs and core. His muscles quiver and he presses his forehead against the left glass panel, whole forearm pressed against the door frame now, bowing into the glass. This close to the glass he can see John more clearly. He sees John's face, lost in lust and pleasure, flushed and eyes wide. He is panting, tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. The sight makes Sherlock groan.

John closes the distance, leans his forearm against the door as well, free hand curled into a loose fist. He looks up at Sherlock, then down to where Sherlock's hand is moving.

"John," Sherlock groans, his climax so very close but not wanting this startling moment of intimacy to end.

John's eyes flutter closed for a moment and then when they open he leans his forehead against the door too. He is too close now for Sherlock to see his face, nothing but a thin pane of glass between them. His breath fogs the glass.

"God, Sherlock."

A guttural sound tears from Sherlock's throat and he comes, his orgasm shattering through him, his ejaculate pulsing on the glass even as he sees John jerk against the panel and shudder his own orgasm out between them.

They both sag, panting, against the door, and then silence falls. The tap is still running into the bath. Sherlock watches his emission, slowly running down the glass in tandem with John's.

John straightens first and takes a step back. He runs his clean hand through his hair and stares off over Sherlock's right shoulder, his chin lifted, spine straight, a flush colouring from ears to chest, and then he turns on his heel. Sherlock hears the bath tap switch off and he straightens and takes a step back, they will return to normal now: John will finish his ablutions, Sherlock will dress. Nothing has happened. Their relationship will return to the status quo, this sexual desire between them ignored and subverted -– breathless panting, gazes that linger, and then always, always tactical retreat, separate rooms, singular release. Sherlock exhales on the thought, but then John is back at the door, swiping a cloth down the glass panel.

And then John opens the door.

He throws the flannel to Sherlock. "Do your side. Come in if you're coming in," he says, not quite meeting Sherlock's eyes, not quite avoiding them either. "I'm having a bath."

Sherlock feels curiously out of his depth. He draws himself up, keeps his expression blank and bland, some small part of him waiting for the sting in the tail: the mockery, the humiliation (thought he'd deleted that).

John sinks into the bath, with a sigh.

"I thought you were at Barts," he says.

"I was," says Sherlock, from the door. He wipes at his ejaculate as requested. "Something bled on me, I had to change."

John silently considers this. "You haven't—before I mean—"

Sherlock frowns as he takes his first step into the bathroom. He flings the flannel into the hand basin. "Did I spy on you previously with voyeuristic intent?" he spells out (let's not be precious here, John, his sharp tone says). "Is that what you think?"

"Sorry, no, of course not." John looks down.

Silence descends.

Sherlock decides this is intolerable in the extreme. If he's going to have to delete this he might as well make a complete fool of himself.

He strides to the bath tub and steps in.

"Jesus!" exclaims John and scoots backwards quickly, and water sloshes in the overfull tub, threatening to spill as Sherlock folds himself down awkwardly onto his knees between John's thighs. He braces both hands on each side of the tub and looms over John.

The pupils in John's indigo eyes dilate as he stares up at him. Sherlock leans down and very carefully presses his mouth against John's parted lips. He draws back quickly, eyes darting to John's, trying to gauge his reaction.

"That…" begins John, pink tongue darting out temptingly. "I think we can do better than that." And he reaches up with wet hands and cups Sherlock's face, pulling him down to restart the kiss.

It is a far better kiss by any measure, deeper, longer, sweeter, and it involves _John_. Sherlock is panting by the time he pulls back. He stares at John, at John's darkened eyes and reddened lips, at his pink tongue that darts out to lick his bottom lip, at the lovely red flush that still colours his cheeks and chest, at his cock, bobbing optimistically in the water scant inches from Sherlock's. Refractory period, Sherlock thinks absently.

"Well," says John. "I wasn't expecting this today. Can't say I mind though."

"I have to return to Barts," says Sherlock. "When I come home—"

"Yes."

Sherlock exhales. "Good," he says and leans in to kiss John again.

end


End file.
